


A Fire Burning in Winter

by levisinner



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, reader is an avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:17:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10027697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levisinner/pseuds/levisinner
Summary: James Buchanan Barnes is perfectly content being all by himself. After all, he can't hurt anyone if he doesn't let himself get close, right? But when you show up in his life, he starts to reconsider that strategy.





	

Bucky Barnes has never been good at relationships.

Really. Not even back in the day. Sure, he could show a girl a good time. Come in, sweep her off her feet in a whirlwind of sweet talk and stereotypical romance…for a month or two, until they both got bored, until they both realized they were nothing more to the other than a pretty face, until their affair quietly faded into a barely remembered footnote in their lives’ stories. Hell, it wasn’t even just with his girlfriends. Outside of his family, the only person he’d ever kept around very long was Steve (and the Howling Commandos, he supposed, but the intensity of the brotherhood forged in the fires of war never made giving up on them on option).

Bucky Barnes used to be good at romance, yeah, but he’s never been good at relationships. And that was before they threw his brain in a blender.

If his skill with relationships before was nothing more than a match, quickly lit and quickly burned out, now, he’s gotta be…fuck, he doesn’t know. Something invisible. No, not invisible. He wishes he was invisible. People notice him, alright. He’s cold and unapproachable, intimidating and mean looking. The kind of guy you’d cross the street so you wouldn’t have to walk past him. If he was a match before, he’s a pile of ashes now: dark and grey and cold and ugly and all in all, pretty goddamn useless.

It bothers him less than it should. He’s not James Buchanan Barnes anymore. He has nothing to offer the ladies — or anyone — anymore except bloodstained hands. If he’s unapproachable, good. If no one wants to get involved with him, then no one will get hurt because of him.

He knows he wasn’t responsible for those killed by the Winter Soldier. Just like he knows that it’s still his responsibility that he was powerless to stop it. He couldn’t resist. He couldn’t break free. He sat there, hidden inside his own body, as he killed, and he was powerless to stop it. And he knows if he ever cares about anyone again, and if they get hurt…it’ll be his fault for not being strong enough to stop it. No amount of Steve’s assurances will change that. That it’s his fault.

He’s accepted it all — accepted being a shadow of a ghost of a man long since dead, hidden deep in the shell of a monster. Isn’t much he can do about it but accept it. He keeps fighting, for Steve, for the man Steve seems to think he still is, to try and save more lives than he’s ruined, but he knows atonement is a lost cause. He’s a broken tool of evil. Nothing more. He’s accepted it.

Or he had.

Then you had to show up and ruin it all.

Other than Steve, the Avengers leave him to his own devices. They know he’s not a fan of human interaction, and none of them seem to be that big fans of him, either, and so they pretty much avoid him.

But…but then you show up, and he has a thought he hasn’t had in a long, long time: _she’s pretty_. You show up, recruited by Maria Hill, a former SHIELD agent, an Inhuman who can control and create fire, and you’re all smiles and laughs and soft curves and messy hair and bright eyes, and Bucky swears his heart stops the moment he sees you. And then you walk over to him, quietly standing in the doorway of the room observing everyone, and introduce yourself. You make small talk. You’re utterly unbothered by his gruffness, his one word responses, his clear nervousness, his coldness, all of it. And he’s utterly confused.

He looks up your file that night, and it blows him away, because you’ve been through so goddamn much. So goddamn much. And yet you’re smiling and laughing and so, so kind. How in the world can so much pain make someone so kind? And you were kind to him. Him. He doesn’t deserve it, he knows he doesn’t.

That night, he has his first nightmare in over a year. It’s about killing you.

He makes up his mind the second he wakes up; he can’t have feelings for you. Feelings are for people, and he’s not really sure what he is anymore, but he doesn’t quite feel like a person. He’s…he’s a hand grenade, with the pin loose enough to be dangerous, ready to explode if anyone pokes or prods it in the least. He can’t expose you to that. He can’t. He makes up his mind to avoid you at all costs. It’s easier that way.

Except it’s not easy at all.

If he’s eating breakfast, you’ll pull up a chair next to him, grabbing your cereal and sleepily telling him good morning, asking how he slept, what his plans for the day are. If he’s in the gym, the second he takes a break, you’re asking him to spot for you or help you stretch out (and by god, does that second one not help his crush). You challenge him to friendly competitions at the shooting range. He can’t avoid you. It’s not even like you’re deliberately seeking him out; you’re just treating him like any of the other team members, and somehow, that makes him feel worse. You’re not being friendly out of pity, or trying to help fix him, or any of that. You’re treating him like he’s a normal person. And that makes him feel fucking awful, because you almost do actually make him feel normal, like he’s not a goddamn hand grenade or pile of ash or what-fucking-ever. Like he’s not a monster.

The night that wrecks him is about three months into your stint as an Avenger. The rest of the team are out on missions or personal business or Avengers business or whatever. He doesn’t know; he doesn’t ask. It’s you, him, and Vision. Vision is almost more awkward than if it were just you and him. Bucky still doesn’t know how to react to a goddamned robot, and Vision isn’t exactly an expert at human interaction, either.

He’s alone in his room, writing — he’s always alone in his room — when you knock on the door. “I’m gonna teach Vis how to play poker, wanna play?” He kinda stares at you for a second, unsure of how to respond, so you continue. “Please? It’ll be way more fun with three of us.”

“I…I don’t know…” This isn’t exactly falling in line with the avoiding you plan.

But then you give him a comically childish pout with your best puppy dog eyes and a “Please, Bucky?” and he crumbles. He laughs and rolls his eyes, telling you alright, fine. You eagerly grab his hand, hauling him up from his seat, pulling him behind you as you lead him to the common room. He hopes you haven’t noticed how sweaty his hands are, and he’s glad you’re leading him, not looking back at his blush.

It’s fun. It’s actually fun, hanging out with the girl of his dreams and an android. He enjoys himself in spite of himself, in spite of his nerves and uncomfortableness and awkwardness. He feels his heart swell when he makes some snarky comment and you laugh. Hell, he feels his heart swell whenever you laugh, whatever the cause. When you finally lose (and that takes all night, because somehow, this cute little girl is damn good at poker), you get mad and incinerate your hand of cards and he’s gone. Head over heels for you.

A week later, he’s alone in his room, and once again, you knock on the door. You trudge in with a plush blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape, a worn paperback in your hands, and a scowl on your face. “Can I read in here? Everywhere else in the fuckin’ compound is so goddamn loud.”

He laughs ’cause you’re just so goddamn cute and tells you sure, that’s fine. He’s expecting you to sit in the armchair, or anywhere not near where he’s laying back on his bed, reading old SHIELD files on a tablet. But you just walk right up to him and plop down on the bed, curling up into a tight ball cocooned in your blanket, pressed against his side. Without missing a beat, you reach up and grab his hand, pulling it down to your head as you open back up your book. “Play with my hair.”

He complies, but he mutters a “someone’s bossy” that makes you anxious that you’ve overstepped your boundaries. You look up, worried what you’ll find in Bucky’s eyes, only to see him smiling down at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

You fall asleep like that, and even though Bucky’s not the most comfortable — still wearing jeans, on top of his blankets, unable to move for fear of disturbing you — sleep catches up to him, too, and it’s the most rest he’s gotten in years.

When he wakes up, you’re gone, and while he’s a little relieved that means avoiding any awkward conversation, he’s kind of sad. As he gets up, though, he hears snippets of conversation floating through the door from the hall. It’s a ways away, but, you know. Super soldier hearing and all that.

“Look, it’s just really great that he’s opening up around you. He looks happier than…happier than I’ve seen him in seventy years. So I just wanted to make sure…just…just be careful, alright? He’s made so much progress since you’ve been here, I…”

“Steve, I get it. I’ve read the files, I know. I’m not going to tiptoe around him, though. But you know…you know what I’ve done. I know what it’s like to be treated like I’m fragile, and I won’t do that to him. I think he seems like a great guy, and that’s what I’m going to treat him like. He deserves to be treated like a person, not a ticking time bomb. I’m not going to go out of my way to hurt him, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not an asshole.”

Him. You and Steve were talking about him. He’s got a weird feeling in his gut, but there’s also a sense of relief flooding over him because you get it. You understand what he craves, what drew him to you in the first place. Normalcy.

“Okay. I’ll…I’ll trust you know what you’re talking about. It’s just…he really, really likes you, okay? So…”

He can almost hear the smirk in your voice. “I know.”

“And how do you feel about him?”

Your response is nonverbal, and the anxiety of wondering what that answer is kills him. Steve must be satisfied with whatever you replied as he moves on to talking about training schedules. Bucky stops listening. He falls back on his bed, trying to think of what to do with what he just heard. It’s not really much information. Steve’s worried, but when is he not? You made some vague comment about something you’d done, but he figures he doesn’t actually know you and your past that well, so it’s probably not a big deal. You know he likes you, but he figured that much because you’ve caught him making heart eyes on more than one occasion. He still doesn’t know if you feels the same.

But…you think he’s a great guy. You said that. And you treat him like any other person. You look at him like a normal person. It takes a moment for that to sink in. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you. He’s a goddamn monster and he deserves to be treated as such. But you…you treat him like a person. You’ve been through so goddamn much and you’re so, so kindhearted, so loving and caring and just…just amazing. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you.

Bucky cries for the first time in years that day.

There aren’t any more noteworthy incidents in the next month, but you’re still…well, you. Kind and funny and smart and beautiful and treating him like a person, and it’s killing him. It’s killing him because he almost feels normal until you’re gone and the guilt starts eating him away again. It’s killing him because fuck, he doesn’t know what love is, he’s never been in love with someone before, but…whatever he feels for you, it’s gotta be pretty goddamn close. It kills him because he knows the longer he lets this go on, the more likely it is that you’ll get hurt because of him, and he can’t live with himself if that happens.

It’s been a month since you fell asleep together and the team’s all together out on a mission. It’s a relatively big operation, breaking into and taking out a whole HYDRA base that’s managed to get a hold of some Chitari weaponry and try to mass produce it. He’s nervous, because it’s HYDRA, and while the trigger words have been removed, it’s still in the back of his head that there might be a failsafe stuck in his brain somewhere, they still might be able to get to him. But he’s more nervous about what could happen to you. He knows he shouldn’t be — you’re an Avenger for a reason — but the thought of anything happening to you churns his stomach.

Turns out neither of those things were worth worrying about because he just gets beat up, takes a bullet to the gut, passes out, and wakes up in goddamn agony back in the Quinjet’s cramped infirmary with you stitching up a cut on his right bicep.

“Wh—what happened?” he grunts out.

You glance up at him with a look he isn’t sure how to interpret. “Mission was a success. All hostiles eliminated and or turned over to the proper authorities, alien ray guns retrieved, no casualties except for you, and you’ll be fine as soon we can get you back to base and in Dr. Cho’s cradle.”

He starts to try and sit up, but you immediately push him back down. With your hands on his pecs, he finally realizes he’s shirtless, and suddenly he feels self-conscious. “Slow down there, soldier,” you tell him. “I said you’ll be fine. Not that you are fine. No moving.”

You go back to tending to his cut arm and he bites his lip, trying to hide the smile he’s wearing because you sound so worried about his wellbeing and if that doesn’t make his heart do a flip, nothing will. “Yes, ma’am.”

You haven’t smiled once since he woke up, and he’s about to ask what’s wrong when you speak. “Goddammit, Bucky,” you say quietly, looking away, “I thought…I just…I just saw you lying there in a pool of blood, completely unresponsive, and I…I thought…” You’re on the brink of tears. He’s never seen you cry before, he’s never seen you this upset. You never finish the thought.

He reaches his left hand over and takes one of your hands. “It’s okay,” he tells you. “I’ve survived a hundred years of this shit. It’ll take a lot more than that to get rid of me.”

You finally manage a smile as the tears threaten to spill. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, old man.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.”

You’re there when he goes into the Cradle, there when he gets out. The second Dr. Cho walks out of the room, you pounce on him with the biggest hug he’s ever received. Your hands are desperately fisting the back of his shirt as you wrap your arms around him, your face buried in his chest.

“I thought you were gone,” you murmur.

“It’s okay, I’m okay. I’m here. You got nothing to worry about, babygirl.” The pet name slips out before he can stop it and he instantly tenses up. You peel away from him and his thoughts race. Oh god, he just overstepped his boundaries, he just screwed it up, he made it all awkward, he—

Then you grab the front of his shirt in both hands, messy fists of cloth clenched tightly in your grip, and pull him down to you, and before he can even think about what’s happening you’re kissing him. You’re kissing him. You’re kissing him, like there’s no damn tomorrow, and he’s pretty sure his heart rate is somewhere around 200. You kiss him until someone from out in the hall calls out for you, probably because you haven’t debriefed yet, and you slip out of the room with a breathless grin in his direction.

It’s supposed to be the fairy tale ending right now, right? But it’s Bucky. He doesn’t get fairy tale endings. He doesn’t get the girl. He doesn’t deserve it. The second you’re out of his sight, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him. He doesn’t deserve you, and if he lets this continue, it’ll end in nothing but pain for you. He can’t let that happen. He has to — no, he can’t just avoid you. You deserve more than that. He’ll talk to you, tell you his lame spiel with his lame excuses. You probably won’t understand, but you don’t need to. It’ll hurt, for both of you, but it’ll hurt a lot less than what he’s capable of doing to you.

He doesn’t see you for the rest of the day, but around midnight, he sends you a text, hoping you’re still up.

_Can we talk?_

Your reply is almost instant. _Of course. Want me to come to your room, or?_

He pauses, chewing his lip as he debates. No. If he has to reject you, if he has to hurt you like this, he knows it’ll haunt him. His room will reek of the ghost of what could’ve been, and considering his room’s his only safe space, he’d rather not. _Can you meet me on the roof?_

_Sure. Be there in ten._

He almost doesn’t hear you approach, you’re so quiet. He’s sitting on the edge of the roof, legs swinging over the edge, when you sit next to him. You’re barefoot, clad in nothing but sweatpants and a tank top tight enough that he immediately notices you’re not wearing a bra. Well, this is distracting. “What’s up?” you ask.

“Aren’t you cold?”

You snap your fingers, and a small flame appears hovering above the tip of your pointer finger. You juggle the flame across your fingertips for a moment before closing your hand, extinguishing it. “I’m never cold,” you say with a shrug. It still unnerves him that superpowers are a real thing that exist, and he hasn’t even tried to wrap his head around what Inhumans are.

He doesn’t know where to start, so he just launches into it. “Look, we both know…I don’t deserve you. I’m sorry, but I can’t…I can’t be with you. I’m a goddamn monster. You know it. Maybe I didn’t kill all those people, whatever, but I didn’t stop it. I was fucking powerless to stop the people I care about getting hurt. And I can’t…I can’t let that happen to you. I couldn’t live with myself. You deserve so much better. I’m sorry.”

You’re quiet for a moment. “You’ve read my files, right?”

“Yeah.” He glances over at you, confused, but you’re just staring down, playing with a small flame.

“Whole family killed in a freak accident right after I got exposed to the Mists and got my powers. What luck, right? Except…it wasn’t a freak accident. Well,” you say with a sad chuckle, “I mean, it was a freak, and it was an accident, but…” You look him in the eye, and he sees an ocean of sadness deep enough to drown in. “I killed them, Buck. I killed them. I got in a fight with my dad. I hadn’t told any of them about the powers yet. I just…” You look back down, letting the flame consume your entire hand. “I wanted to scare him. I just wanted to scare him. But I couldn’t control it. I exploded. I literally fucking exploded. And bam, there’s the whole house wiped off the map. And my family…gone. Nothing but brittle bones and ash and the metal plate my dad had in his shoulder left.” You extinguish the flame and look back up at him. “You think it’s your fault people got killed, Buck? Think it’s your fault that HYDRA, the world’s most powerful organization, with the most brilliant twisted minds and all the resources they could want at their disposal, could overpower you? It’s not. Even Steve, goodness and strength personified, couldn’t have resisted that. But me…I killed them with my own goddamn hands because I couldn’t even stop myself. You think…you think you break everything you touch, but Bucky…you have no idea.”

He’s speechless. How does he respond to that revelation? The two of you sit there in silence for a long moment before he looks at you and realizes you’re holding back tears, your chin quivering as you blink rapidly. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even hesitate as he pulls you up into his lap, and that’s when your dam breaks. Your whole body is wracked with sobs as you cry into his chest, sitting sideways on his lap, clutching his shirt as tight as possible. His metal arm is wrapped around your waist while the other strokes your hair gently. Neither of you say anything. No words are needed.

You sit like that for a long time, crying into his shirt as he plays with your hair and eventually starts to whisper reassurances. It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. It’s okay, babygirl.

He doesn’t know how long it is before you stop crying, but finally, you pull back. “I think…I know deep down, that it’s not my fault I didn’t know how to control my powers. And I think you know deep down you’re not responsible for anything that was done to you. And I think…I think maybe we can help each other finally believe that.”

Bucky’s never been good at relationships, but maybe that’s because he never really knew what a relationship was. He thinks he gets it now. It’s not all the fancy romance. It’s just two people helping each other be the best person they can be. And maybe, just maybe, he can be good at that.


End file.
